He sat in the boat alone, oblivious to their discussion. He hadn’t even noticed what either of them looked like. There had been so many faces; crying relatives of victims, shouting at him through their tears, people whispering in groups as he was led away, and always the investigators, asking the same question, “Why?”. In the beginning, he tried to plead, screaming “I’m innocent!” and telling his story to anyone who would listen. Since the night the realization came, all he did was stare straight ahead, never looking people in the eye. He would mumble under his breath “I killed them. I can’t believe it. They’re gone. I killed them. How could I kill them? I betrayed our friendship. I deserve this. I deserve this.” He knew that Pettigrew was still out there, probably hiding in the sewers. It was not for Pettigrew that he cried, not for him that he gave up and turned quiet. No, it was for James, his best friend, and James’ young wife Lily. He had killed them. He had betrayed them. At least Harry survived, he thought. Poor innocent child, now parentless. “I did this to him,” he whispered, “I killed James and Lily and ruined my Godson’s life. I deserve this.” The boatman climbed back in, took his seat, and began to guide the boat to the island. “Hey, you, what ya’ mumbling about?” the boatman asked him. He didn’t answer, but stared straight ahead, at the prison where he’d spend the rest of his life.